


There's Always Something

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Come play, Erotic Photography, Established Relationship, Fandom Trumps Hate, I swear this is mostly happy porn though, M/M, Oral Sex, Secrets, anxiety over kinks, past and internalized homophobia, spider gag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-11-17
Packaged: 2019-07-12 03:22:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15986570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: John Watson has a secret. How long will it take his boyfriend to figure it out?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Alihahdnaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alihahdnaid/gifts).



> This was initially supposed to be an under 5000 word short for FandomTrumpsHate. My muse is fickle at the best of times and this year work has been more stressful than usual, leaving me less time for creative pursuits. Despite that, this piece took on a life of its own and I have been working on it most of the year. It has ended up at more than 10,000 words and I truly hope it is everything my amazing bidder could want. She has been so patient! I'm sure the year-long deadline is meant for people who put out novel-length fics, but I was grateful for it. She wanted a spider gag, anal play and couldn't decide between established relationship and first time, so I kinda gave her both I hope.
> 
> Thanks to [merindab (janto321 or FaceofMer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FaceofMer) for betaing.
> 
> As is always true for my fics, if you have questions, want to say hi, or think I should tag something differently, please reach out very kindly [here](http://beltainefaerie.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr (same username).
> 
>  
> 
> Update: I keep trying to fix the link in the first chapter and it isn't working. I think the artist might have something on their page that doesn't allow links like this, probably for copyright purposes, as it keeps inserting "no follow" into the code every time I try. The address is www.garthknight.com which you can old school copy and paste. Obviously, I have nothing to do with this artist except adoring his work.

John Watson had a secret.

John Watson had a secret that, until recently, he’d kept even from himself.

John Watson had a secret that he’d managed to keep even from his boyfriend, which was a far more impressive achievement. After all, who had any secrets around Sherlock Holmes? 

John Watson wanted to be dominated, and frankly, that scared the hell out of him.

 

He hadn’t always. Not that he was aware of, at any rate. John hadn’t ever thought about it until recently, despite having once had a girlfriend who liked to be tied up. That had been fine. A little spice. It didn't particularly do much for him, but he didn't mind. He liked watching her squirm and he did a decent job with tying the ropes. Most importantly, _she_ liked it, which was what really worked for him anyway. He liked making his partners feel good, however that worked best for them. Anyway, that had been ages ago. They hadn’t even been with her all that long, but they’d experimented a bit over those months. In all the years after, he hadn’t ever wished that he had let her, or anyone else, tie him up for fun. 

John hadn’t exactly lived the safest life. He’d been tied up and tortured for real as a soldier. Hell, more recently than that he’d been kidnapped in his work with Sherlock. More than once. It had been many things. Stressful, frustrating, painful. Anything but erotic. 

Until that day at the studio turned his world upside down.

Even then, he’d expected it to be a passing thought, a strange moment kindled by erotic art. Maybe good for a wank or two. But clearly this was more; the case had been a month ago and his thoughts kept returning to that day, those images, and the idea of Sherlock touching him... like that. 

Forty some years on earth and never once had he thought a little slap and tickle would push his buttons. But now? He was like a dog with a bone; he couldn't let it go. Okay, he should probably come up with an analogy that didn’t involve the word "bone", but nonetheless… 

 

The place had been divided into a studio rented out by working artists and a front gallery. Most of the gallery had been fit for all ages and easily visible through the storefront windows. There had been art everywhere from the intricately painted floor to the maze of partial walls throughout the space, the the main walls of the room. Beautiful photography, oil paintings, and a couple of freestanding geometric sculptures. Some walls were more traditional portraits, others were extreme close ups of flowers and insects that were more abstract and avant garde in feeling, but a room to the left of the main gallery held a special adult gallery rented by a private club for a weekend event. John and Sherlock had been given a tour of the entire gallery and studio as part of the case, including that room, which was off limit for usual guests. John had stopped short when they entered the room. Part of it was simply the shocking contrast from the rest of the displays. They left behind the riot of color from the previous space. Here there was bare hardwood floor, cool grey walls, but it was the photographs that struck John. He he sucked in a breath and held it. The striking imagery of those simple black and white photographs had awakened something within John. Something which simply would not go back to sleep. 

The display small room had been made up of three walls, the fourth given over to bios on the photographers. To his left as they entered, the wall had held pictures of [elaborate rope work which looked like trees](www.garthknight.com), but with people suspended, encased in the intricately woven trunk or branches.

Straight ahead had been close ups. Black leather cuffs and a corseted back. The tails of a flogger just as it landed on the soft curve of someone’s buttock. The sharp lines of a chiseled, slightly stubbled jaw line visible just above a hand curved around their throat. A riding crop held for it formed a rigid black line below the curves of a marked backside. A close up of a mouth stretched wide open around some kind of cruel looking metal gag.

The wall to the right held full body portraits in near silhouette. A well-muscled man stood, naked except for a pair of precariously tall stilettos. A woman, her waist cinched impossibly small by a tight laced corset, knelt beside a chaise. Her hands were clasped behind her back and a collar encircled her throat. Just visible in the frame was a hand holding her lead. A fit soldier, dog tags dangling from his neck, was used as a footstool for someone also in combat boots.

John had pulled his coat tighter around himself, self-conscious of the clear effect the photos exhibit had on him. Thankfully, Sherlock had been far too busy with the case to notice what a state that room had put John in. Sherlock and the gallery owner had been in constant conversation and paid him no mind, and after his initial reaction, John had been too wrapped up in the work to let it distract him. They solved the case fairly quickly and that should have been that.

 

But John hadn’t been able to let it go. His thoughts kept returning to that room. That gag. The kneeling soldier.

The spike of arousal that blindsided him in the gallery was not lessened over time, as he had hoped. If anything, it was growing stronger.

John could be reasonably sure that Sherlock would notice eventually. Ferreting out secrets was what he did. He’d get an inkling about John’s recent preoccupation sometime. Probably sooner rather than later.

And John couldn’t stop himself from worrying what would happen when he did.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock slumped in his chair, his steepled fingertips just brushing his lips, a touchpoint to waking consciousness. The time John was away at the shops provided a perfect opportunity to review their recent encounters and mentally file away what he had learned. It seemed apropos to use the bedroom of John’s wing in his mind palace, so he settled in, eyes slipping shut as he sunk deeper.

Sorting, reviewing, cataloguing. There was something... not _missing_ , not exactly, just something he wasn’t seeing. Something new to explore. Sifting through the facts, he knew he could find it eventually, just like the data from a crime scene; the pattern would emerge if he looked at it in just the right way. 

He pulled anatomical charts, where he had mapped out the most erogenous spots, from the bedside table and examining them carefully. Of course the expected sensitivity of genitals, so that was easily dismissed. John’s nipples ranged from erotic to irritating depending how close he was to climax. The back of his neck, and earlobes could be ticklish, but once they were already engaged in foreplay or actual sex, they heightened John’s pleasure. And of course that particular spot behind his knee that if licked at just the right moment seemed to double his pleasure and had once made him come outright. Infinitely fascinating, like John himself, but these didn’t seem to yield any new data today. 

Ah, there is was, the information suddenly coalescing to reveal the missing point. 

_John moans louder when I pull his hair. If no one takes charge he will do so admirably in any given situation, but he reveled in the simplicity of following orders in the military and sometimes misses it. His eyes visibly dilate when I use my height to advantage or pin him down._

_Does he know that? Would he want it to go further?_ Sherlock began to surface, coming out of his mind palace as he turned this over in his thoughts. They had explored many things together. Giving and taking pleasure in turn, loving and playful, with whatever felt good. Fingers, toys, various positions. He had generally let John lead. He was more experienced in this area after all. But what would it be like to take control himself? 

_I can picture him splayed out before me, a willing subject for whatever experiments I dream up._

He felt himself harden at the thought. He didn’t palm himself yet, letting the pressure build as his mind explored the possibilities... 

_Fucking John thoroughly until my ejaculate is leaking out of his tight hole. Plugging him up, so he has to hold it inside._

Sherlock hadn’t exactly been aware of having a come fetish, but the idea that John’s body taking him in, absorbing something of him, merging them on a minute level, was suddenly enthralling. That he wasn’t just inside John, wasn’t just primally claiming him in the act, but they were becoming one, not merely poetically, but in a scientific manner. 

Besides, it could be useful, keeping him filled up with the mixture of lubrication and ejaculate. He’d be so slick and open, ready to use as soon as Sherlock was hard again. And it didn’t seem like that would take long. He’d never had a very long refractory period, but seeing John so well fucked, knowing how open and ready he was, would likely shorten it further.

_Or I could make preparation the focus. Going agonisingly slow, filling John with slick and working a slim plug into his arse as he writhes, cock hard, aching, and, for the moment, ignored. John begging for my mouth, my hand, any friction he can have to get off, not allowing him to come until I give permission. How long would he last?_

Sherlock slid further down in his chair, letting his legs fall open as he palmed himself lightly, ideas continuing to play out in his head. 

_What if even getting hard in the first place was prevented? John, writhing and desperately longing. Having him caged and plugged, all day, even if we were called out on a case. Would anyone notice? Were they that unobservant?_

_I could tease him the whole cab ride home, sneaking a hand over to trace the ridges of the cage, and as soon as we stumbled up the seventeen steps to the flat. I would spread him out on the couch as the door clicked shut behind us. Perhaps I would pull the plug out and lick his arse slowly, filling him with my tongue and listening to him beg. He loves being rimmed and it makes him blush furiously and beg for more. After being filled with a plug all day my tongue would hardly be enough. It would be maddening. All the stimulation, almost too intense, but not nearly as full as before. And he still wouldn’t be able to get hard, his cock straining in the cage. He’d be practically weeping for release. When I’d had my fill of tasting him, I’d strip the cage off and fuck him fast and hard._ In his mind, Sherlock heard his own voice, rough and commanding. ‘ _Stroke yourself, John. If you can get off before I fill you up with my come, you get to. Otherwise we’ll put you back in the cage and try again tomorrow.’_

_John, would reach down and stroke his cock, already full and leaking. He’d have been so desperate for so long it would only take three or four pulls before he’d cry out, shuddering through his climax as I pounded into him. He’d manage to say, ‘thank you sir’ as he came all over himself and the sight of him so debauched for me would sent me over the edge. I’d pull him close, spilling deep inside him._

Sherlock shuddered in pleasure at the thought and stroked himself through his trousers, before lowering the zip.

_I could fill John up with increasingly larger toys while I use his mouth. I love the way John sucks me, swirling his tongue around the head, and then taking me so very deep. His moans of pleasure reverberate around my cock. I’d love to fuck John’s throat and make him rock back on the biggest toy we own until he shoots his load all over the floor and I spill down his throat. I imagine if I had my hand wrapped around his throat, I could feel him swallow. Not hard enough to choke him, just enough to feel._

Sherlock’s cock pulsed with desire. He had just slipped his hand into his pants with the intent of finally getting himself off, when he heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. _Damn. Could John be back from the shops already?_ Sherlock sighed regretfully, and, with difficulty, refastened his trousers, standing up just as John entered the flat, arms laden with bags.

“Little help here?” he managed, before dropping the bags onto the counter.

“Boring.” Sherlock drawled, crowding John against the worktop. He pressed close and bent down to kiss him. 

When he drew back, John looked starry-eyed and a little unfocused. “What brought this on, then?”

“Just thinking about you.” 

John’s hand slid down, cupping Sherlock’s hardness. “Mmhmm, I can feel how _hard_ you’ve been thinking about me.”

Sherlock drew back and gave him a disapproving glare before they dissolved into helpless laughter. 

Catching his breath, John said, “Sorry. That was terrible.”

“It was. I ought to give you a spanking for making such an awful pun.”

“You just try that” John said, in a tone that tried for warning, but the speed with which he turned away to hide the rising flush in his cheeks told a different story.

Sherlock smiled to himself. _Interesting_.

John busied himself with the groceries he’d brought up. “We’ve nothing on the rest of the afternoon. Let me get these sorted before something spoils and then we can do anything you’d like.” 

“Mmm, I like the sound of that,” Sherlock purred. Sherlock turned the phrase over in his mind and wondered how far he could push that today, given the bent of his thoughts this afternoon. Still, he didn’t want to go too fast and send John running. He kissed the back of John’s neck, watching him shiver, then murmured, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

He stripped off and lay in the center of the bed stroking himself, like some sort of debauched prince. 

Hardly any time had passed before John as he walked in, already divested of his jumper and fingers working open the buttons on his shirt. Sherlock eyed him hungrily, pleased to see that John’s eagerness. 

John paused just past the doorway, his mouth quirking up in a half smile, “Fuck, you’re gorgeous like that. Like some kind of Greek God.”

Sherlock chucked, dark and warm, meeting John’s eyes as he stroked from root to tip “Priapus?”

Sherlock watched a faraway look cross John’s face, likely recalling the private collection of statues they’d seen one afternoon on a case in Alnwick, before he pulled his attention back to this moment, chuckling. “I meant Eros, or maybe Bacchus, but I suppose for that I should have brought the grapes.” John added with a backward glance at the kitchen. “But Priapus definitely works,” he said as his gaze came to rest hungrily on Sherlock’s cock.

“Come here.”

John climbed up on the bed and Sherlock drew him down into a deep kiss. When he pulled back, John asked, “So, what did you have in mind?”

Though his earlier fantasies flashed through Sherlock’s mind, he settled on something more usual for them. “I want your arse,” he said, giving it a squeeze and pulling John on top of him. His hard cock slotted up between John’s cheeks and Sherlock anchored him there, gripping John’s hips as he thrust teasingly a few times. He could feel John’s prick trapped between them, hard and throbbing with need with each shift of their bodies.

“Tease.”

“Oh, I have no intention of teasing.” Sherlock said darkly and leant over and dug in the bedside table drawer, returning with slick and a slim silicone plug. 

They shifted slightly so their cocks pressed together, enjoying the friction as they moved. Sherlock spread slick over his fingers and reached back, slicking the puckered skin of John’s tight hole. Circling, pressing lightly, until John relaxed under his touch. “I love the way you open for me.”

John moaned and pushed back against him, taking the tip of his finger in. “I love you. God, yes, fill me up. You know what I need.”

Sherlock fingered John a bit more before moving on to the toy, just working the tip in and out a few times until he was ready. Sherlock met John’s eyes and pressed in hard, gauging John’s reaction. 

As expected, John liked it, His eyes dilated and he bucked, sliding their cocks together, as he cried out in obvious appreciation. 

Sherlock held him close, grinding against him with a sinfully deep groan. “That feels entirely too good, but I have other plans for you,” Sherlock said. “Turn around.” He shifted them until he could take John’s cock in his mouth, and pressed John down towards his own. Sherlock played with the plug as he licked and sucked at John’s cock and bollocks, making him shiver. 

John’s mouth on him felt exquisite, warm and yielding, with just the right pressure. They could rarely come like this, too caught up in one another’s pleasure to complete their own, but it felt divine.

They kept each other on edge for ages, each bringing the other to the brink and drawing back. Finally, Sherlock pulled off. “John, I need you.” as he slipped the plug free and tossed it aside. He spread John’s cheeks, “So slick and open for me. You’re ready, too, aren’t you.”

“God, yes. Need you, Sherlock.” 

John started to shift off to hands and knees when Sherlock stopped him. “Stay on top, I want to see you.” 

John shifted and clambered around until he knelt astride Sherlock’s hips once again. 

Sherlock held himself steady and lined up with John’s slick hole, using the hand on his hip to guide him back. 

John moaned as Sherlock breached him and Sherlock echoed with his own moan and did everything he could to draw the moment out, holding John there, with only the head of his cock inside. He guided John forward, so their foreheads touched, breathing slowly together as John accomodated the stretch. 

After a moment, they shifted, drawn into a deep kiss, energy surging between them like they’d completed a circuit. So connected, feeding off of one another’s pleasure already. And then Sherlock began to move. 

John threw his head back as he rocked his hips in rhythm with Sherlock’s upward thrusts. “Oh God, Sherlock. Christ, there, there.”

“I need you to-” Sherlock started, then broke off, favoring actions over words. He gripped John’s hips, moving him how he wanted him. 

John gasped and his eyes widened in surprise, but his cock visibly throbbed. 

_Yes, he liked that just fine._ Sherlock smiled to himself and watched John’s face as he held him in place. John’s eyes had slipped closed, the tension gone out of his limbs as he let himself be moved and held. His trust made those earlier fantasies feel tantalizingly close. Thrusting deep, Sherlock held him in place. 

__A curious mixture of desire and awe crossed John’s face. Sherlock filed that look away for future exploration._ _

__John’s eyes opened and Sherlock held his gaze, taking in his wide-blown pupils, flushed cheeks, lips parting as if he would cry out. Sherlock released one hip and reached up to gently pinch John’s nipple, curling forward to take the other in his mouth. John’s eyes slipped shut again and he tightened down on Sherlock’s cock. The feeling, John hot and tight, pulsing around him, was all Sherlock needed to tip right over the edge. He moaned as he came and came and came._ _

__John trembled above him as Sherlock filled him. His eyes fluttered then shut tight and he blushed furiously, a hand going to his own cock, stroking himself off fast and hard._ _

__Sherlock had often been accused of being a mind reader when he only viewed signals and signs and interpreted them logically, but in this moment he wished he could know exactly what was going on in John’s mind that could stain his cheeks crimson. All allowed himself to say was, “Gorgeous,” fingers brushing lightly over John’s arms and chest, everywhere he could reach. “That’s it, John. Come.”_ _

__John’s hand finished its downward stroke then stilled as he groaned and came, striping Sherlock’s chest, before collapsing forward into his embrace._ _

__Something had shifted between them; invisible, but Sherlock felt the way John relaxed in his grip, the way he came at his command. Sherlock had said it when he was close, but the effect had been immediate and spectacular._ _

_Yes, this certainly warranted further investigation._


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to Honour, though it is a real sex store in London that sells fetish gear. I have been to many sex stores here including fetish stores and John's interactions here are like the positive ones I've been to. I was given the name of a better fetish gear store, but due to its slightly hidden entrance and need to be buzzed in I think this John might lose his resolve before getting there at this stage. It will likely appear in another fic.

Standing in the coffee queue down the road from the surgery, John let his mind wander, replaying the memories of last night with Sherlock. The way his whole body had felt hot and tight, so full and, well _used_. His eyes had slipped shut for a moment of privacy on that thought, though he hadn’t been able to stop the flush of his cheeks. He recalled with perfect clarity how his hand had gone to his cock, stroking himself off fast and hard, his whole body sensitized, tingling with desire, everything in him screaming _nownownow_ and then Sherlock had told him to come and he couldn’t hold back a second longer. _Christ_. Sex with Sherlock was always good, but that had been incredible. 

“Hey, you’re John Watson!” the tall bloke behind him said, startling John out of his revery. Probably for the best. If he thought about last night much more, he likely wouldn’t be fit for standing around in public. 

John turned around and smiled. “That’s me, yeah.”

“My name’s John, too. John Wilcox. Can I have a picture? Wife’ll never believe I ran into you. We love your blog.”

John shook hands with him and even posed for a selfie. Sherlock tended to refuse outright or at least glare a bit at such requests, but John didn’t usually mind unless the fans were unusually pushy or grabby.

“Haven’t seen an update in awhile, though.” Wilcox added. “Everything all right? Any new cases on?”

John hadn’t realized he’d been avoiding finishing the write up, but now that he thought about it, he had left the draft on his blog untouched for a week and it had been more than twice that just to get as far as he had. It was unusual for him these days to take nearly a month to write up a case, unless they got too many close together, which certainly wasn’t true at the moment. _In fact something better come up soon or Sherlock might become a danger to himself or others. Or at least to Mrs. Hudson’s walls._

“Yeah, actually. Fine. There was some robbery and intrigue at an art gallery. Should have it up soon.”

By then the barista was finishing up with her customer and it was John’s turn. He ordered, but Mr. Wilcox stepped up with him, insisting on buying John’s coffee.

John thanked him and as their drinks were brewed Wilcox blathered on about his favorite cases while John nodded in the appropriate places, occasionally putting in a detail or two that hadn’t been on the blog. He smiled and chatted and watched the barista make his drink, decidedly _not_ thinking any more about last night. When it was ready, he thanked Wilcox again and hurried off to the surgery once more. On the way back he resolved that he’d finish the case write up tonight. No sense in putting it off any longer. 

The rest of the day got by uneventfully, but between a trip to the shops, making a curry and trying to coax his bored stroppy lover to eat it, John didn’t actually get around to writing until after dinner. Sherlock had ensconced himself at the kitchen table with what appeared to be rat hearts. 

John poured himself a finger of whisky and settled into his chair, scanning through the draft on his phone. He’d taken to working there more often. Less unwanted editing advice. Sherlock “borrowed” John’s laptop without permission all the time, but never his phone. 

After a quick once over of The Case of the Thieving Artist (or should it be Art and Iniquity?), he realized he should add a link. It didn’t take long to find the site for the group that had rented the gallery space. He dashed off an email asking if it would be all right to mention them, including their name and a more public event of theirs in the blog, in case anyone was interested. (Of course he didn’t even let himself think “in case _I_ might be interested".) The site included a calendar of events, house rules and information on membership, and lots of pictures of their play spaces. John scrolled through, looking at the play rooms. Some rooms looked like part of a castle dungeon. From manacles on the wall to what appeared to be a large wooden cage beside, _was that a medieval rack?_ Others were plush, almost opulent. A fancy boudoir draped with silk and lace, though the large mattress beneath the canopy was covered in leather. Some spaces looked like private rooms and others had room for multiple players. They even had a couple professionals in house who could be hired for private play sessions during the week. 

Unbidden, the image sprung to mind of showing up to an appointment like that, but the wrongness of it made his stomach feel sour. He didn’t want anyone else doing things to him. Trust issues didn’t even begin to cover it. He didn’t want to cheat and even though sex would certainly be off the table, surrendering like that would feel just as bad. Worse, even. He wasn’t sure Sherlock would understand these needs, but he had no desire to try them out with anyone else. Still, how could he ask this of Sherlock, who had never been in a relationship before this? Although he claimed he didn’t understand the softer emotions, Sherlock was surprisingly loving and attentive as a partner. It seemed wrong to ask for more, to draw him into these kinds of things...

John let the phone fall into his lap, surprised at his own thoughts. _These kinds of things?_

If he’d been asked even a few months ago what he thought of people tying each other up for a lark, and the like, he didn't think that he’d have much have cared. Didn’t think it should be criminal or anything. It certainly wasn't like he thought they were perverts, not really. But the idea of it in _their_ bedroom changed that somehow. He didn’t want to drag Sherlock into something so...what, exactly? Sordid? Dirty? He knew it wasn’t really any of those things, but that didn’t dampen the emotional charge. 

_**Perverts.**_ His father’s voice rang in his head. _Ah, there it was._ His generic term for anyone gay. He’d disowned Harry the moment she came out. If he was still alive to see his son turn queer he’d have disowned him too. 

John rubbed his temples. Didn’t he get over that particular landmine when he’d decided to pursue a relationship with Sherlock? Da had been wrong about a lot of things, so why did this stick?

Sherlock would probably rattle off something about how common it was for even perfectly mundane things to cause the resurfacing of repressed childhood trauma. He’d already taken the leap, but this, _this_ desire, was a step beyond that.

John shook his head. Why did he have to get so hung up about things? Sherlock had no problems expressing what he wanted. Demand more like. While John had been trying to go slow, Sherlock had been as certain as ever. _“Stop trying to work out how I can be a virgin and a size queen at the same time. I’d be more than happy to introduce you to my vast collection of silicone later. My favorite is close to your girth. I absolutely can take it, so don’t waste a lot of time on prep. You want this and I need you, preferably now. I’ll even be polite about it. Please, John Watson will you put aside the bedside manner and fuck me. If it helps, think of it this way, I’ve had two decades worth of anal sex it has just all been with myself. Now I’d like it to be with you.”_

Right. Remembering that first time made him feel like a complete tit for even worrying about this. It was so logical and forthright and so perfectly Sherlock. He’d probably take everything in stride. _He_ wasn’t the one with the hang ups about this kind of thing, was he? But for John the kink held the thrill of the forbidden. Exciting and frightening and wrong, but in a way that could be very, very right if Sherlock were amenable. He didn’t want to be too much for him or make him do anything he’d regret, but even more than that, he didn’t want to ask for anything he couldn’t deliver. 

_That was it, wasn’t it?_ Sherlock had been a virgin when they started all this, but if the other day was any indication he might not mind taking a bit of control. He had been so commanding. Different. Did he realize? Was he testing theories in his own way?

And if so, what had he discovered?

John went around and around in his mind until he was fairly dizzy with it, not ready for conversation with Sherlock. Not yet, anyway. Too much to figure out still. 

What was it about all this that intrigued him? Not much to talk about if he didn’t know for himself. 

He glanced back at his phone, searching the club site again. There were sidebar ads for companions, devices, porn sites. The gifs of people tied to fucking machines and the men and women in thick black collars or crotchless vinyl catsuits getting gang banged in vivid color didn’t have half of the power as those photos in the gallery. 

He felt Sherlock’s eyes on him and, whether he was imagining it or not, couldn’t help feeling like he was going to deduce everything. It would probably be fine but John wasn’t certain, wasn’t ready for any of this. He blew out a breath and rose to his feet, needing to walk. Needing the air and the sky. He always walked to process. Usually when he was angry, but sometimes to be alone with his thoughts where no one he knew could see. He’d taken a lot of walks before he and Sherlock had gotten together, just processing what that would mean for him, for them. He tucked his phone away in his pocket as he stood up. 

Slipping on his shoes and jacket, he nodded to Sherlock and stepped out. If he was going to be lost in these thoughts, at least he didn’t have to be caught out at by the bloody smartest man in the world. Sherlock was used to it. He knew John’d be back for dinner. Usually back _with dinner_ more accurately.

The bustle on the streets cloaked John. People headed home for the day, people headed out to night shifts. A baby cried and a mum pushed a pram by him, getting some air to head off that twilight fussiness that so many children had. He could remember his mum doing that with Harry. 

He imagined the people at the clubs wouldn’t look like those pictures. Probably more like the folk streaming past him. He glanced at his phone again, looking at the calendar of events and local affiliates. A sidebar ad featured Torture Garden. He’d known about that place for years. _Who didn’t? Wasn’t exactly a secret._ But that didn’t feel so much like dipping a toe in. It would be crowded and loud and besides there was no way he could justify being out until all hours of the night without Sherlock. He poked around the at the London fetish scene online for a few minutes. A lot of what he found looked more like it was dedicated to swinging or shock value than actual BDSM. Club Rub looked lowkey. More his speed, but they didn’t meet regularly. It was out towards Harry’s place, though. He could go for a visit, but it wasn’t like they got on that well and even something that public seemed a bit off-putting. He shook his head. This was ridiculous. Besides, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Sherlock would figure it out. Or worse, that he’d misunderstand. If it seemed like John was sneaking around, the balance of probabilities would lead him to think John was seeing someone else. He’d have to be a complete idiot to screw up the relationship with the love of his life for, what? A fantasy he wasn’t even sure he’d like once he got a real taste? God knew people had all kinds of fantasies they don’t want to happen in real life. 

At the bottom of the page he spotted a small ad and he smiled. Might work. The pictures cycled through a few sex toys and a bit of fetish gear. A local store called, of all things, Honour. _Strange name for a sex shop. Appealing, though._

He could pick up another plug or some slick or something, so even if Sherlock deduced where he’d been he’d have some reason for the trip. Might help. If faced with the equipment, maybe he’d realize this was all rather insane and be able to back out of it without ever involving Sherlock. But on the other hand, if it was still a turn on? He could figure out what to do with it then. _Better to know. Right?_

With that decided, John headed for home.

A few days later he managed a bit of time after work. He wasn’t certain what he’d expected, but it was different. Everything was clean and neat. Although the lights were dim, it was atmospheric, not dingy or sleazy. 

He walked around the shop, picking up a new plug just slightly bigger than a current favorite of theirs and a bottle of Sherlock’s favorite lube. The place had the usual sex store fare, in terms of sexy fancy dress, glossy DVD cases of porn, dildos of all shapes and sizes. Eventually, looking like he was just browsing, John made his way to the bondage area. He admired the collars and harnesses, sex swings, floggers and paddles, but soon stood transfixed by the wall display of gags. Something about the picture on the box of a ring gag with metal spikes that arched over the wearer’s cheeks made him feel a curious mixture of terrified arousal. He reached out almost tentatively and picked up what was, according to the box, called a spider gag. It wasn’t exactly tiny, but the box was still reasonably small enough to hide somewhere, insomuch as one could hide anything from Sherlock. 

Before he could talk himself out of it, John took it and his other items up to the counter. The saleswoman was a bright twentysomething, ‘Brenda’ according to her name tag, who looked to John far too wholesome to be nattering away about sex toys. Somehow, it was a bit calming that she seemed so normal, making polite conversation as she checked to make sure everything was in working order. She made sure he understood that all sales were final and demonstrated the adjustable clasp at the back. John took a deep breath and listened patiently, willing his cheeks not to color. She offered him a leather cleaning solution to go with the gag, which he declined and rang him up with a cheery smile, handing him his purchase slip and a coupon for later. John threw the garish box away before leaving the store. Leaving the other items in his bag, he slipped the gag into his pocket, and made his way home.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A second chapter today, since there wasn't any sex in the last one. Enjoy!

A week or so later, they had another case. This one was more intellectual, a crime of finance rather than a murder. Sherlock found certain aspects of the subterfuge fascinating, as it seemed like the criminals actually weren’t idiots for once. 

“It’s just research, John,” he said. “I swear. No pursuits, or dangerous chases, or risk of bodily harm of any kind outside a possible papercut or two.”

John chuckled. “Well, as long as you’re sure. I’m certain they’d appreciate it if I limited calling out of work to actual emergencies. Text if anything changes.”

“I will,” Sherlock said and kissed his forehead before pulling on his coat and heading out, looking back around the door to add, “I should be back before you, though not by much, if my calculations are correct.”

“Just be careful.” John waved him off smiling fondly.

Only a few minutes later, as he finished his tea and toast, his text alert sounded.

**Sorry John. We’ve had a few cancellations. All covered. Enjoy the day off!**

John sighed. It was too late to catch up with Sherlock and besides, it wasn’t much use to tag along just to sit there while Sherlock did lab work and research. It was one thing when there was enough to do that they could both work and quite another to sit bored out of his skull while Sherlock did everything and got tetchy when it was tedious.

Suddenly John was struck by the idea of several uninterrupted hours alone. He went up to his old room, heart pounding even though he knew no one was home. There, from between the bedframe and the wall, he pulled out the small, nondescript box in which he’d hidden the package from his trip to Honour. He opened it and slipped the contraption of metal and leather out into his palm, looking at it with the same frisson of helpless fear and excitement he’d felt the first time he saw it. He knew it sounded paranoid, but he hadn’t even dared to take it out again with Sherlock in the flat. He slipped the ring into his mouth, the cruel metal stretching his mouth wide, then reached back, buckling it in place. Closing his eyes, he slid his fingers tentatively over the metal spikes arching across his cheeks. 

He imagined himself tied up and struggling, completely at Sherlock’s mercy. Why the hell did that make him so hard? He liked to be in control. Always. And yet, these feelings, these fantasies, worked him up in ways he couldn’t fathom. He slid his pyjama bottoms off and palmed himself before moving closer to the bed. 

John reached into the drawer of the nightstand and grabbed a thick, black plug and the bottle of slick. He lay back on the bed, popped the cap and dribbled some onto his fingers, spreading his legs for better access. He rubbed the pads of two fingers over the puckered flesh of his hole. 

Even after all this time, his pulse raced, his heart hammering with the almost primal fear of getting caught. The thrill of the forbidden that nearly always accompanied playing with his arse, especially on his own, was heightened by the gag. 

He relaxed into the touch, pressing his fingers just inside, then drizzled more slick over the smooth silicone of the plug. Sherlock would usually start with one of the smaller ones and work him up to it, but today John just wanted to be filled. He worked slowly, inch by inch, pressing in and easing out gently until he reached the thickest part. He lingered there, loving the stretch of it. He rocked up and down on it, rising to pull nearly off before taking it all back in, but it wasn’t enough. He reached back to grip the base to push it deeper, then pull it out, again and again. Filling his greedy hole, imagining he was taking it for Sherlock, that Sherlock’s strong hands were pushing it into him. 

At last he pressed it deep, taking the whole toy until his opening fluttered shut and clamped down on the slender stem before the flared base. He held there, just enjoying the fullness for a moment before shifting off the bed. The hard floor gave him something to push against and he imagined Sherlock making him rock back and forth, filling himself again and again. He wondered if Sherlock could fuck his mouth through the gag. He couldn’t suck like this, couldn’t resist, couldn’t do anything but take it. 

A chill ran down his spine at how arousing that thought was and he nearly came right then. His neglected cock pulsed with need, a bead of precome forming at the tip. John squeezed once at the base of his cock, wanting to make this last. It would likely be hours before Sherlock was home and who knew when he’d get an opportunity like this again.

He imagined for a moment Sherlock coming home and finding him like this and taking over. ‘So this is what you’ve been hiding.’ The Sherlock in his mind was neither shocked nor put off. He would lower his zip and pull out his prick, stroking himself to hardness then use John’s mouth through the gag. When he was nice and wet, he’d push John down onto all fours and pull the plug free. Overwhelmed with lust, Sherlock wouldn’t bother with any further preparations. He’d fuck into him hard and fast, reaching around to stroke him off.

John moved his own hands, in rhythm with the Sherlock of his imagination, toying with the plug while he stroked his cock just the way he liked it, his grip tight, relaxing just enough for his palm to slide up and over the sensitive head nearly every time. He shuddered, drawing in a breath and holding it, intensifying the tense feeling as he hovered on the edge of pleasure. The moment lengthened, tension cresting, and then he was coming, hot pulses spurting out against his belly, his hand, the floor. 

He laid there panting, kitten weak, and boneless for long minutes, just reveling in the filthy, debauched feeling of it all,covered with the mingled slick, sweat, come from his exertions. 

When he came back to himself, John cleaned up, put everything away, slipping the gag back into its hiding place. 

After he took a shower and cleaned his teeth, he put on a fresh jumper and the old, soft denims he liked to lounge around in. He puttered around the house, tidying and trying to remember what he would normally do with his time alone. The earlier post orgasm calm had faded and he was at loose ends, finding it hard to settle into anything. 

Eventually, he called over to the Chinese place that he and Sherlock had discovered one day while wrapping up a case. It was a bit further away than their usual spot, but Sherlock found he preferred their dumplings and John enjoyed their particular take on sweet hot soup, which skewed just a bit more on the savory side than most others he’d tried. The restaurant didn’t usually deliver all the way to Baker Street, but like so many other local businesses, they made an exception for Sherlock Holmes (and apparently his boyfriend). He was grateful for it today, for although he was restless, he couldn’t imagine trying to leave the house. 

Out of useful things to do, John sat down in his chair. He attempted to concentrate on reading, but his thoughts kept drifting back to his wank earlier. John, with all his baggage, who preferred to be in charge in nearly any situation, was blindsided by how keenly he wanted this. The helplessness, overwhelmed and utterly in Sherlock’s control.

He set the table, putting out a couple candles. It had been awhile since they’d had a proper dinner, rather than just cartons in front of the telly. 

Sherlock came bounding up the stairs, sacks in hand. He looked John over then announced, “You didn’t go to work.”

John gave him a lopsided grin. _How did he always know?_

It faded as immediately on the heels of that was inevitably _what else does he know?_

“Cancellations at the surgery. Didn’t need me. How’d it go at the lab?”

“Fine. It was the uncle as I suspected. Texted Lestrade from the car.”

They ate and chatted, but when Sherlock asked about his day, having learned ages ago that it was polite to ask, not deduce your boyfriend, John was at a loss. “Just puttered around the house, really.” 

Sherlock hummed at that, though whether that little hum meant “I see. How boring.” or “You’re lying but I’ll let you for now,” John couldn’t say. 

John tried to determine whether he was ready to broach the subject. And if so, how? (He knew he should. He knew now that he _did_ like it and was more than certain it would be even better with Sherlock.) He took a breath, on the verge of spilling everything, when Lestrade texted with another case. Nearly unprecedented to start one the same day the last one had finished and this time both John and Sherlock were needed. 

They threw on their jackets and rushed out the door, leaving the dumplings growing cold.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock went up to John’s old room intent on getting out his old combat boots to examine the tread but what he found was far more intriguing. He shifted the bed frame slightly while pulling out John’s old duffle and something hit the floor with a soft thunk. Sherlock walked around and picked up the box, turning it over in his hands. He examined it for a moment before opening it, letting the cool metal and leather slide out into his hand. He gave an appreciative hum. He had been hoping for a sign, but hadn’t been expecting such a concrete confirmation of his suspicions. He turned it this way and that, looking at the straps and buckles. _How would this look on my John?_

Sherlock sat down on the bed, questioning, deducing, enraptured. _Had John had this long? Was it from another lover or a recent acquisition? Did he want to wear it or put it on someone?_ Sherlock examined the straps carefully. _One of the holes in the leather was slightly worn. Not brand new, then. The wearing was closer to the end of the strap, rather than further in, so probably worn by a man. Since John had never had a male lover before, it stood to reason he was wearing it himself._

Sherlock’s revelry was broken when he heard the door bang open downstairs.

He shoved everything back where he had found it, took the boot he needed and hurried from the room. 

John clearly wanted this hidden for now. Sherlock would have to proceed with caution, but it did fit nicely with the data he’d gathered so far. A few more experiments and they were likely to make one another even happier, which was saying something. Sherlock never expected happiness at all. Contentment, perhaps, but never happiness. John had proved him wrong in that. Who could have imagined there could be anything more than the amazement that loving John Watson had already brought him?

 _Definitely more to explore._

\---

A few nights later gave an excellent chance for more data. Sherlock pushed John through a small arched doorway and shut it behind them. Outside the walls, they could hear the guards and dogs racing by. They’d been investigating a jewel thief turned murderer, but all wasn’t as it seemed.

Sherlock crowded John against the walls of the brick courtyard, effectively pining one arm in the corner, and holding the other down with his left as his right hand clamped over John's mouth. "Not a sound," he whispered in John's ear.

Apparently Sherlock was right to warn him. By the flash in his eyes, it seemed John was on the verge of shouting, "What the bloody hell, Sherlock?" but reigned it in at Sherlock’s command.

The position was not going to help in the current chase, considering John would almost certainly be slowed down by the massive tent in his trousers, but luckily Sherlock was nearly certain continued chase was unnecessary.

"Wait here," Sherlock admonished, and pretended not to notice John adjusting himself. He strode off to peer around the brickwork archway out into the rest of the garden. It was dark, but the moon gave him enough light to see the hustle and bustle continuing towards the far west gate. He watched for a minute more to be certain, before returning to John.

"We've lost them,” Sherlock said in hushed tones. “They won't be looking for us at all tonight. Not with the rivalry with Gandel's gang to contend with. That’s who they think they’re pursuing, likely all the way to Gandel’s door across town. They aren’t wrong. I gave them enough clues. I’m certain Gandel’s gang was responsible for the break in. Makenzie reported the stolen jewels, but the thief also made off with a large quantity of cocaine and guns which were much more valuable than either the jewels or the underling who was killed trying to stop him."

He pulled out his phone, fingers flying over the keys as he texted Lestrade, then sauntered back to John, a knowing smile on his lips. "We should be quite alone for now. The staff back at the house has been told to stay there and the grounds team have all be sent on the pursuit." He paused, then leaned in closer. "If I told you to get on your knees right now for me, would you do it?"

John’s eyes grew wide, but he licked his lips. He hesitated, obviously at war with himself, but then he squared his shoulders and nodded slowly. He took a deep breath and his eyes met Sherlock’s. John's gaze never wavered as he slowly sank to his knees in the damp grass of the courtyard.

Sherlock unfastened his flies and slid his hand into his pants, giving himself a long slow pull. He stared down hungrily at John as he stroked himself to full hardness.

John’s hand twitched and he licked his lips again, leaning slightly forward, telegraphing his desire to reach out, to touch and lick, to swallow him down, but he made the effort to stay still, watching. Awaiting invitation, or instruction. Sherlock had started this and John was actually letting himself be led.

Sherlock let out a soft moan and something both deeper and darker than simple lust made his pulse race. “Go on, then. I know what you want,” he said, cupping the back of John’s head lightly.

He could have pulled away easily, but John didn’t. He leaned into the touch for a moment before kneeling up and licking a wet stripe up the underside of Sherlock’s cock.

John tongued Sherlock’s slit, lapping the beads of precome before taking the head of his cock in his mouth and sucking lightly. Sherlock groaned with the heady mix of power and pleasure. 

John began to suck in earnest, his head bobbing as he took Sherlock deeper and deeper. John’s own hardness was gloriously visible through his trousers, but he made no move to take care of himself, concentrating solely on Sherlock’s pleasure.

Sherlock felt a wicked thrill as he braced against the wall and ran just the tip of his shoe over the bulge. John hissed and moved his hand down almost reflexively. John wanted to get off, but Sherlock wanted to test his resolve. 

“Don’t, John. Not here. I promise I’ll take care of you, but we can’t leave evidence behind.”

John groaned and sucked harder. His hips rocked of their own volition, rutting against Sherlock’s shoe. His hands moved up to cup Sherlock’s bollocks and stroke whatever wasn’t in the wet heat of his mouth.

Sherlock sighed and sank his fingers into John’s short hair, tugging lightly as he came with John’s throat working around him, swallowing every drop.

By the time they finished, the commotion had long since ceased and they were able to slip out of the garden undetected.

Sherlock endeavored to make the cab ride home a delicious kind of hell for John, who was worked up like he hadn’t been in ages. He watched John trying to calm himself, then smirked at him across the seat as he reached over, gently tracing the outline of John’s bulge with his fingertips. He purposefully turned his gaze either forward or out the window each time he touched John, feigning a completely normal drive. The last thing they needed was to be turned out of a cab in London. Word would get around and they’d never hear the end of it. John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and Sherlock chanced a glance at him. John squared his shoulders, as if reminding himself, “I was a soldier.” He had resolve. He could do this, and he knew it. Sherlock’s smile grew as he looked away and casually reached over to surreptitiously stroke John again.

Back in the flat, Sherlock wasted no time, stripping them both so efficiently, John scarcely did anything to help. He let Sherlock overwhelm him.  
“You were incredible,” Sherlock murmured against his neck, peppering kisses down his chest. “Now I’m going to take care of you. Just lay back and let me.”


	6. Chapter 6

John tried to focus on breakfast or the news that Lestrade’s men had helped bust the two largest drug rings in England based on their turf war and Sherlock’s tip off. His thoughts kept returning to the way his heart hammered in his chest as he sank to his knees last night. The way Sherlock took control. John took Sherlock’s assurances that they were safe for granted, but the thrill of being in public, even in the seclusion of the garden was unlike any sex they’d ever had. They had to talk about it. About everything. He took a deep breath and asked, “What was that last night?”

Sherlock looked down as though he might equivocate or feign ignorance about what John meant, but then simply shrugged, “You like it when I tell you what to do.”

John glared and reflexively countered, “I most certainly don’t like the way you boss everyone around. Just because you’re usually right doesn’t mean I _like_ it”

Sherlock looked back impassively. “Not other people, John. Just you. Just here.”

John ducked his head trying to hide behind the paper as he felt the warmth of his cheeks flushing. He wasn’t quite sure why he’d tried to generalize, to deny it.

“It’s not a problem. I...” Sherlock licked his lips, his eyes taking on an almost predatory gleam as his voice dropped even lower. He took the paper from John’s hands, and John let him. “I’ve been experimenting a bit. You may have noticed. I like it too. In fact, I have a list of things I think we should try, itemized by my preferences and what I've observed you'd probably…”

John barked out a surprised, delighted laugh then shook his head ruefully. “Of course you do. I’ve spent the last two months struggling to… and you’ve got a bloody spreadsheet about it.”

Sherlock looked chagrined. “Should I not have?”

John smiled warmly at him. “It’s fine. You were just being, well, you and I love you. Now where’s that list?”

\----  
_Blog of John H. Watson_

_Private entry_

_We’re half way through that ridiculous spreadsheet. Gags, being held down and edging were as successful as we both thought they’d be. Sherlock was initially disappointed that I was not interested in the reality of rope bondage. I had certainly seen some breathtaking rope work, both in the gallery and, fuck, just thinking about it got me off, but I should have known better. I’ve been held hostage in actual war zones in addition to being kidnapped a time or two working with Sherlock. Add in the bad shoulder and it just wasn’t a great idea. Suffice it to say a heat pack fixed the pulled muscle, Sherlock used my medical shears to cut me out rather than taking the time to untie, and we managed to stop the whole thing before I had a bloody panic attack. When I’d recovered, Sherlock actually gave me a massage to make up for it, and we ended up having some spectacular sex anyway, so the evening wasn’t entirely lost._

_Luckily the rope won’t go to waste. They’ve gone from the bedroom to the lab, as we call my old room these days. I’ve moved all my daily things into our bedroom. I realized I was holding back a lot of things, not just my fantasies. No more hedging or hiding. I’m all in with Sherlock now and for the rest of our lives._

_His experiments have included testing and cataloguing the tensile strength, stretch, ease of severing, and weight capacity of various kinds of rope. So far silk, hemp, jute, and nylon. The data might prove useful on a case. After all of that, Sherlock noticed that I’d still been glancing longingly at rope, despite our mishap, and I think he’s been mentally experimenting with that too. Last night, he suggested we try again, but only bind my legs. No worry about the shoulder. God, I love this man._

\-----

They’d been playing for some time tonight and Sherlock was still dressed completely in a button up, the soft wool of his trousers pressed against John’s cheek. John knelt, very aware of his own nudity, his position, the thrill of knowing he was going to be used well tonight. He shivered slightly, in anticipation rather than chill and nuzzled against the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers, feeling him harden further.

"I'm not Interested in slow. Not tonight.” Sherlock breathed, his hushed voice still commanding and roughened with desire. “Get me off, John. And because you have been so good, I'll let you choose whether to use your skilled hands or that fuckable mouth of yours." Sherlock pulled John up for a kiss and released him.

John staggered a bit and looked up at him, feeling that almost starry-eyed wonder that seemed to settle over him when they played like this. He dropped to his knees again and set about deftly unfastening Sherlock's flies.

As ordered, he wasted no time with the usual caresses, instead taking Sherlock's whole length in one go. He sucked hard as he pulled back, laving the head with a swirl of his tongue before taking Sherlock deep again. He bobbed his head in rapid strokes, finding the rhythm that made Sherlock's breath quicken and his hands scrabble for purchase in John's short hair.

 _That’s it. Come down my throat._ John thought and brought his hands up to stroke anything not currently in his mouth and fondle Sherlock's bollocks. They drew up, fitting compactly into the hollow of John’s hand as Sherlock's climax edged nearer.

When he knew Sherlock was close, he relaxed his throat and took Sherlock all the way down, his nose brushing the tight, dark curls at the base, and swallowed.

Sherlock groaned, "Oh, yes! John!"

John thought Sherlock would finally let himself tip over the edge, but after a moment he pulled out of John’s grasp and he stepped back. Taking the spider gag from his pocket, Sherlock asked, "Are you ready to be my toy? To be used for my pleasure?"

John couldn't meet his eyes as he said, "Yes, sir." Sherlock buckled it into place, cupping the back of John’s head.

“If you need me to stop what do you do?”

John tapped Sherlock’s hip rapidly three times.

Sherlock smiled down at him. “Good. Ready?”

John nodded minutely. Sherlock slipped through the gag and into John’s waiting mouth. John used his tongue as best he could to heighten Sherlock’s pleasure, but mostly concentrated on relaxing his throat and breathing around Sherlock’s thrusts, letting him control the action. It had taken a few tries to find the rhythm of it, but now John could sink into the intensity of the experience and just enjoy being used for Sherlock’s pleasure.  
_God, that sounded filthy._ He loved every second of it.  
Sherlock stilled as he came, holding him close. John swallowed it all down and sat back on his heels, panting. His knees and jaw ached, but his heart was soaring. Breathless and exuberant, he hadn’t even noticed he was almost painfully hard, until Sherlock dragged the toe of his shoe gently over John’s hardness.

John felt his cheeks heat at the sensation, calling back that night in the garden. He closed his eyes and let out a shaky breath.

“What do you think,” Sherlock drawled, “Should I let you have a little relief too?”

John looked up at Sherlock, at once panicked at the suggestion, however teasing, that he might _not_ get to come and excited at Sherlock’s complete control. Eyes wide, he nodded affirmation. 

“You’ve been so very good for me, but if you can wait just a little longer, I’ll make it worth the effort.”

Sherlock unbuckled the gag and laid it aside, tracing the lines it left on John’s cheeks. John imagined he must look a mess, but Sherlock just whispered, “Beautiful.”

Sherlock reached into the bedside table and pulled out a coil of soft silk rope in a deep midnight blue. “It reminded me of your eyes,” he said, stealing a kiss as he got John into position.

John couldn’t stop smiling as Sherlock worked deftly, looping and tying.

John’s neglected cock throbbed as Sherlock worked. Every so often, Sherlock stopped to stroke him, keeping him on edge.

Faster than he would have thought, John was trussed on his back, legs bent. His calves pressed against his thighs, ropes interlacing around them. Sherlock balanced his hands on John’s knees, holding him open. John’s hands were left free and he stretched them out, his eyes closing for a moment as he concentrated on the feeling. When John opened them again, Sherlock looked at him intently, clearly searching out any sign or signal of panic, but John just smiled up at him. 

Sherlock passed him the bottle of slick. “Go on, then. Open yourself for me.”

Sherlock sat back on his heels, still spreading John’s thighs and watching him intently; like a wolf with a succulent hare in its sights.

John willed his hands to move, coating his fingers with slick. Frisson tickled down his spine at being watched. It was unnerving to be wanted so intensely, but he couldn’t deny the warmth that settled low in his belly. He’d prepared himself with Sherlock before, but never like this, never making a show of it. It was arousing but distracting too. His eyes slipped shut, focusing on the task not the audience as his hands slid down between his legs, spreading the slick over the sensitive skin of his hole.

Sherlock allowed this for a few moments before commanding, “Look at me, John.”

John obeyed and shivered at the intensity of watching Sherlock watch him. He was grateful when Sherlock passed him a slim plug, the smooth slide of silicone drawing a moan from him after the roughness of his fingers. Even with lube he swore he could feel every small callous, every whorl of his own fingerprints.

“Beautiful. Look at you all spread out for me.” Sherlock leaned forward and licked up length of John’s shaft, then covered John’s hand with his own, pressing the toy deeper.

With his other hand Sherlock brushed John’s nipples. John writhed, moaning. God everything was so sensitive this way. Electric shivers of pleasure thrilled through him as Sherlock alternated between kisses, nips, licks and trailing featherlight caresses over John’s chest, stomach, his cock and his thighs. John squirmed and hissed out a shivering breath as Sherlock edged too close to his sides. 

Sherlock slid the toy out and John whimpered at the loss. So open, aching with desperation. “I need you,” he panted. “Please, Sherlock…”

“Not quite yet, John. Hold on, for me. You can do it.”

Sherlock brought out a toy John hadn’t seen before and held it up. It was thick and as Sherlock slicked it for use its ridges caught the light. John knew he’d feel every one of them keenly and his cock throbbed in anticipation.

Sherlock smiled wickedly. “I can see you like the idea.”

John watched as Sherlock lowered the toy and gasped as he felt the cool tip pressing against his rim. He was used to being stretched open, to the pressure and burn that gave way to pleasure, but he felt it more keenly restrained as he was. He didn’t want to get away, in fact far from it, but the vulnerability made him infinitely more aware of every sensation. He bore down on the intrusion then relaxed into the fullness of the larger dildo with a deep groan of pleasure, his eyes fluttering open to meet Sherlock’s.

God, he’d never seen Sherlock’s eyes that dark with lust. John’s mouth was suddenly dry. He wanted to cry out, to beg for more, but all that came out was a hoarse groan, as Sherlock pressed it deeper. He felt himself spread wider, and consciously relaxed into it, opening up, accepting every inch until he was more full then he could ever remember. .

Then Sherlock began to move. He wasn’t gentle, and gave John just what he needed. A constant stream of _fillmefuckmetakemeuseme_ echoed John’s mind, but he wasn’t sure he was managing words. 

Sherlock worked the toy in deep, twisting slightly as he pulled out. The ridges felt exquisite, and John cried out as he was filled over and over again. Sherlock pulled the whole toy nearly free before thrusting it home again, his strokes coming faster and harder until John was panting, shaking, his cock leaking.

John glanced down, taking in the way he looked, crisscrossed with ropes and his cock pulsing with need and kneeling between his legs, Sherlock whose intent, pleased expression revealed that he was enjoying the show nearly as much as John was enjoying taking it for him.

“Christ, just like that. Please, Sherlock,” he begged.

Sherlock gave him a few more thrusts before growling out, “Just look what you do to me.” He cupped John’s head, tipping him further forward, so he could more easily see Sherlock’s swollen prick. “I’m hard again already. Do you think you can take more?”

“God, yes. Sherlock, please fuck me.”

He pulled the toy out and before John could even whimper at the loss, Sherlock was there, hot and thick, pressing into John’s yielding hole. 

“This is what you need, isn’t it?”

John breathed out a steady litany of “Yesyesyesyes,” as Sherlock filled him up, the warmth of Sherlock’s body against him somehow the only thing that had been missing before.

Sherlock reached down to stroke him off, touching him everywhere, inside and out. “That’s it, John. You’ve been so good. Let go for me. I want to feel you come. Feel your walls clench around me.”

At that, John trembled beneath him and let go. Everything felt so fucking good. He arched up into Sherlock’s grip and cried out, streaking his own stomach with come.

Sherlock smiled down at him with a feral gleam in his eyes and shifted to grip his thighs so tightly John was sure the ropes would leave indents in his skin, and rode him hard through his climax, chasing his own. Just before he came, he bent forward to kiss John fiercely, moaning into his mouth, then stilled, pulsing deep inside, filling John completely.

John shook with aftershocks of pleasure as they lay together, both too dazed and sated to bother cleaning up just yet.

“Fuck, that was hot,” John sighed, nuzzling against Sherlock.

“I certainly thought so.” Sherlock flashed a wicked smile.

“I love you.”

“I love you too. I would have thought this phrase was sentimental and insipid a year ago but think I do honestly love you more every day.”

“Not sure there’s a metric to measure that one,” John smiled, “but that doesn’t make it any less true.”

Sherlock sat up carefully untying John, and they collapsed back onto the bed, John curled up on Sherlock’s chest. John was starting to drift off when Sherlock began to ramble something about the parameters he could set that would measure the chemical reactions we think of as “love.”

John smiled fondly. “Shh, you. I’m trying to bask in the glow of that oxytocin, not make a study of it.”

Sherlock chuckled then fell silent, stroking John’s hair. The touch was soothing and John let himself settled in, safe in the circle of Sherlock’s arms. He was content, more sated than he ever thought possible, and for once in his life, truly at peace in his body and his world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I hope everyone who has been following along enjoys the conclusion. I had a great time writing this piece. Thanks again to merindab for betaing. this piece is so much better due to her loving care.


End file.
